LUST NOT LOVE

Text JINA KHAYYER Photography OLIVIER ZAHM

During the golden age of the Rive Gauche, in the Paris of the 1960s, the MONTANA was a gentlemen’s club where Alain Delon and Catherine Deneuve danced cheek to cheek. Having fallen off the radar in the early 1980s,

nobody has dared to reinvent its myth. But last winter the legendary MONTANA reopened with a new host-triumvirate worthy of the old guard: Parisian graffiti artist André, homme-of-all-trades Jean-Yves Le Fur,

and Purple magazine editor Olivier Zahm.

Freaking out at night seems to be a part of the game, where flaunting your breasts, showing your panties, and kissing the same sex are all fair play. Once the disco ball starts to spin, taboos start to disappear – except for smoking in the club of course. Cigarettes, not heroin. But the real heroines smoke in the club anyway. Behind the DJ booth, where Jim is. You have to kneel down so the bartender doesn’t get mad, and it always looks like Jim is getting a proper blowjob.

“Is that the guy from this morning?” Siddhartha asks.“No, that’s the guy from tomorrow morning.” Siddhartha is impressed. He’s one

of the few here who isn’t cruising. Since he’s been engaged all he can think about is Vancouver, and his shiny Tiffany’s engagement rock evinces it. He’s what one could call a dream catch: good looking, smart, successful. His heart is as pure as a glass of Evian. But don’t even think about – he’s taken.

“You Can Call Me Al,” by Paul Simon is blaring out from the speakers, and the dance floor is packed. All the girls are in high heels except for Olympia and me. She’s got on her new, mahogany Weston loafers, which are a tricky color to pull off, but she wears them well. Very well.

Before people were only armed with cell phones on the night circuit. How ghastly it looks when a face is illuminated by the charmless blue light of a BlackBerry. Now everyone carries a camera, which makes some pose, and others hide – not all of us are keen on seeing our face-disco on Facebook. Click click goes the shutter. This time it’s not just anyone. It’s Peter Beard shooting his entourage, a couple of amazingly graceful babygiraffes. Nicolas, who is back into nightlife after splitting with his boy-friend, is dancing like a dervish to Simon’s lyrics: “If you be my bodyguard, I can be your long-lost pal.” Young beaux gather around him, full of hope. Again, click click. OZ arrives, camera in hand and eyes hidden behind his shades as usual. From a distance I can see Natacha’s legs descending the stairs. Actually, the first thing I see is Balenciaga heels, the ones that could tear a man’s heart out. She steps up to the dance floor with a bright smile – I’ve never seen Natacha in a bad mood. Paris may have a lot of pretty girls to show, but there’s something special about Natacha, something natural. Maybe it’s her bushy eyebrows, which she never plucks. Or the way she wears her hair: simple, straight, and sometimes even wet. If she gets tired of her heels, she’ll just pull out her flats. All this may seem normal, but the “new normal” certainly has other codes, such as plastic surgery, or a suffer-in-your-heels attitude; depressed and melancholic faces seem to be everywhere, hiding behind loads of makeup.

Ever since smoking was banned in Paris, the clubs all smell of sweat. But the Mon-tana smells of patchouli. It must cost a fortune to light up all those scented candles every night, but it’s worth it. It suits the sexed-up atmosphere. The walls are covered with mosaic mirrors, which they say were made by Paco Rabanne. The indirect light shines out from skulls. Almost everyone looks good here.

Feeling a bit unmotivated on the dance floor I decide to check out the other girls. I catch a glimpse of the most adventurous hairstyles, another “new normal” code. Even when their hair is thin and broken, French women know how to carry a showdown style, equipped with accessories I wouldn’t even imagine for a costume party. Every time I pass by the window of Alexandre de Paris on Rue Saint-Honoré I wonder who buys all those sparkling tiaras that are bigger than the Queen of England’s. The ans-wer is right in front of my nose.

I go back to Jim to have a cigarette. I see Kate enter. Everybody freezes with a turned head and a questioning look. Who is she with? What is she wearing? The ans-wers are not that exciting. The Kills just had a show, so Kate and Jamie were having dinner at Café de Flore, which is just next door. Everyone who goes to Flore ends up

WE WILL ALWAYS REMAIN CHILDRENALWAYS WANTING TO PLAYBUT THE GAMES CHANGE

Late-night bibliophilia: Olivier Zahm and Sarah Cravan

From left to right, Montana patrons: Olympia Le Tan, a girl with tattoos, legs, Olivier Zahm kissing Stefano Pilati,

Laetitia Crahay, Aurel Schmidt, Jean-Yves Le Fur and Marc Newson, more legs, Claire Dhelens, Nicolas, Joseph Kosuth, Lou Doillon,

finally, legs!, a girl with a skull, Gaspar Noé, Karl Lagerfeld & Co., Juliette Dol and Lauren Bastide, 1970s David Hicks carpet

selected by Vincent Darré, André and Aaron Young

at the Montana at some point. Kate comes to smoke. She’s wearing greyish skinny jeans, a simple T-shirt, and extra-high heels of no special beauty. She smells good though, like a peach.

It’s tight back there, chez Jim. I move to the leather bench, next to Olympia. In the candlelight her face is even more mysterious. Her Eurasian eyes sparkle honey-colored, while her nose throws a little shadow on her left cheek. I realize how won-derfully shaped her lips are.

Click click on Kate, who’s still with Jim. Click click on Olympia, who jumps up in her petites-fleurs dress to dance to “Boys Don’t Cry.” JP switches shirts with G. Or let’s say by now they’re both mingling around topless. I make my way to the bar for another vodka when I feel a pair of hands on my breasts. I turn around and it’s André. He kisses me.

“Come on, I want a girl,” I say. “Take her,” he says, pointing to Kate.Kate’s not a great dancer. Or maybe she’s had too much, I don’t know. Jean-Yves

is taking care of her, escorting her over to the bench. We all sit down. André is ob-serving the babygiraffes sitting on the other side of the dance floor. “Look how cute they are,” he says. With their porcelain-doll heads pressed this close together, these babygiraffes could make out with their lashes. André waves over Aurore, the hostess of the Montana. She looks like a young Marianne Faithfull: at least 5’9”, a size zero, and healthy-looking breasts, which she isn’t afraid to hide. Her T-shirt is torn just enough to reveal her push-up bra. That’s what I like most about French women – they always look like sex but are rarely vulgar. Like an Amazon, Aurore swaggers up in her stilettos and leans down to André with her long, blond hair dancing between her breasts.

He whispers something into her ear and she turns to the bar, gets two piscine cock-

What are babygiraffes? Bloody young, gorgeous, tall girls. They have long hair – blond or brunette, doesn’t matter – and love their Chanel bags, skinny jeans, and T-Shirts. Makeup is something they don’t use, which distinguishes them from the Shalalas – those high-society starlets whose over-powdered noses stick up to the ceiling. Cartier

it could be mistaken for a belt. Shalalas hunt for a Casiraghi or a Niarchos, while baby-giraffes just want to play. And these babygiraffes are no exception: they’re at our table

I go for a smoke. Siddhartha follows me, killing me with questions. His whole being is research. He’s fascinated by sociology and psychology, so he poses the “why” questions, or the “are you” ones. Why are they playing all this old stuff here? Why is this person hot and that one not so much? Are you twittering too? Why is so and so dating such and such when so and so is way better looking than such and such? I’m more fascinated with how well JP and G are getting along – I hooked them up after all.

Olympia has taken my spot next to Jim, so I sit on one of the speakers next to the DJ booth. I try to rest, nursing my vodka, when suddenly I feel someone coming closer. I don’t know who she is, but before I can say anything I taste her lips. She kisses me as if there’s no tomorrow, turns around, and leaves. All done in less than five minutes.

Objéts d’art, courtesy Montana’s Vincent Darré